


Can't Get You Out of My Head

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Series: Tales from the Special Branch [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Drarry, Explicit Language, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Nudity, Public Sex, Shower Sex, Switching, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 15:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9826184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: After he sees Harry Potter naked in the Auror showers once, Draco can't stop thinking about him. (Prequel toLost In Your Arms.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Geneva2010 (Geneva)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geneva/gifts).



> **PLEASE NOTE BEFORE READING:** One of the kinks in this fic is dirty talk which includes Harry and Draco occasionally using words like sl*t, wh*re and sl*g about themselves and each other in consensual sexual acts and finding that both sexually liberating and arousing. Should that be triggery for you, I've uploaded [a PDF here](http://occlumens.com/PDF/CGYOH_CleanerEdit.pdf) of the entire work that doesn't include those words. It does however, still include dirty talk defined as Harry and Draco talking about sexual acts while engaged in consensual sex, so keep that in mind!
> 
> (Ed: Just an FYI, this is a one shot, open ending standalone for a fest on LiveJournal. A sequel is in the works and will be posted when the fest ends at the beginning of March. You can [follow here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) for updates.)
> 
> Written for the 2017 HP Kinkfest. Geneva2010, I took your prompt of nudity and ran with it, a bit further than I expected honestly. It was great fun to write for you, and I hope you enjoy! Many thanks to the lovely hp-kinkfest mods for the opportunity to post and tons of love to my betas sassy-cissa and noeon for making sure I didn't misspell the word "cock." Which I may have. More than once. Title courtesy of Ms. Kylie Minogue.
> 
> Many apologies for this perhaps being the filthiest thing I've ever written. /0\ If you're a member of my family please back-button out. D:

Draco runs down Holborn Street, his trainers slapping against the damp pavement, his ragged breath a staccato stream of white puffs in the cold February air. His chin-length hair’s tucked beneath a knit cap, and the sound of the early morning London streets is muffled by a modified version of the Bubble-Head Charm, creating small pockets of sound over his ears that replace the traffic noise and sidewalk din with the WWN’s Breakfast Show. He doesn’t particularly care for the inane chatter of the hosts, but the music helps him run three miles every morning from his flat near Regent’s Park to the Auror Training Centre, buried below the undercroft of the Barbican.

His lungs feel as if knives are slashing through them as he crosses onto Charterhouse Street. The Weird Sisters fade in his ears, replaced with the latest single from Spellbound. Draco runs faster, as if propelling his body forward could help him escape the caterwauling. He wrenches the cap from his head, breaking the charm. The gates of Smithfield Market are up already, even in the grey gloom of dawn, and Draco sidesteps a lorry pulling into the street, its burly driver half-hanging out the window, shouting at him.

Blaise mocks Draco for his daily run, but Blaise can fuck off for all Draco cares. There’s enough Veela blood in the twat that he’ll never have to worry about going to fat. Draco, on the other hand, comes from a long line of portly older Malfoys, his father notwithstanding, and he’s worked too bloody hard to get where he is in the Auror Force to let himself falter physically now. For a moment, he thinks about taking his run around the corner, past Pret for a tepid tea and a breakfast hot wrap with bacon. Best not, though. He has a session on defensive hand-to-hand combat at half-nine, and the last thing he needs is a bit of grease in his stomach when Hardwicke throws him down on the mat for the hundredth time. A hot shower to warm up, instead, and then he’ll pop into the commissary for a bowl of porridge and a mug of the black sludge the Aurors call coffee.

He can see the brash, blocky Brutalist lines of the Barbican down the street across Aldersgate, three dun-brown towers of concrete balconies jetting up against the dark clouds, muted squares of light gleaming through rows of dirty windows as the City of London begins to wake and ready itself for the day ahead. Blond hair tumbles in to Draco’s eyes; he brushes it away, his cap still clenched in a gloved hand. Six years he’s fought to be an Auror, barely making it through the first few of Auror training with Blaise and Pansy at his side. No one had wanted them there; if it hadn’t been for Bertram Aubrey, Draco thinks the rest of the instructors would have drummed them out within a month. Slytherins weren’t welcome after the war. Weren’t trusted. But Bertie’d stepped in, put himself on the line with the other instructors, saying he’d train the Slytherins himself, especially if Head Auror Robards thought they were worth bringing in. No one could argue with him; he’d been awarded an Order of Merlin, second class, by Shacklebolt himself while Draco’d been back at Hogwarts, finishing up his eighth-year coursework with Pansy. All Bertie’d cared to know is why they wanted to put themselves through this; he’d been satisfied when Draco’d said he thought they had something to prove, all three of them. Not an eloquent answer, but it’d been one Bertie’d understood.

Now Draco’s been pulled back in for more training, along with Blaise, so it’s back to the Barbican for three months’ worth of coursework, and specialised at that. Shacklebolt’s suggestion, from what Robards had told them both six weeks ago when the order came in, and not even the Head Auror himself could object to the Minister’s interference.

Traffic slows for the light, and Draco takes his chance, dashing across four lanes despite the horns that blare at him, their drivers’ annoyance conveyed in a sharp burst of bleary bleats. He considers flicking his wand their way, nothing too untoward, just a mechanical hex or two that would wear off at the light change, but Robards doesn’t look kindly on Auror interference with Muggles, and Draco needs to keep his nose clean. He suspects that will be his mantra for the remainder of his life, thanks to his father. The Malfoy name’s been blemished, and to step a toe out of line even on accident means sideways glances and bitter murmurs in the bullpen that are hushed whenever he walks by. Draco’s got used to it, mostly, but he’s learnt to keep his tongue and bend his head, skills he’d never had in school. Life has a way of changing people, he thinks. Being an Auror was never anything he’d considered, not until the end of eighth year when Robards had come by Hogwarts to talk to the handful of students who’d passed all their NEWTs with exceptional marks. He’d been one of them, as had Pans. They’d been silent and wary, the both of them, seated in the back of McGonagall’s office, trying to keep out of sight. They’d learnt that in eighth year, the value of being unnoticed. Their fellow students hadn’t wanted them back in school; they’d heard more than one whispered question about why they hadn’t been thrown in Azkaban along with the rest of the Dark Lord’s lot.

Robards, however, had stopped them after the session. Their test scores were exemplary, he’d noted, perfect for the Aurors, and had they thought about the force? He wouldn’t mind making a political point with their training, he’d made that clear. There hadn’t been many options open after leaving Hogwarts, at least not for Slytherins, who’d found door after door closed to them.  It’d only taken a few nights drinking in the Three Broomsticks with Blaise for them to agree. If the Aurors would have them, if Robards had meant what he’d said, then they’d go through training. They hadn’t thought Robards would sign them up. They’d been wrong.

The Barbican squats above Draco like an enormous spotted toad, still slick with the remnants of last night’s rain.  He makes his way around the corner, along the health club where the grand men and women of the City’s financial institutions are plodding their way on the myriad treadmills lining the window. Draco’s never understood Muggles, really. Why not run with the sting of wind on one’s face, rather than staring blankly through smoked glass at the world passing by?

Draco’s calves burn, but he doesn’t slow down, not until he reaches the grimy brown door hidden behind a thick, heavy concrete column. He pulls his warrant card from his pocket and taps it against the door. It opens with a creak, and Draco slips unnoticed into the bland warmth of the training centre’s foyer.  Portraits of Head Aurors from the past century line the walls, frowning down at him. Scrimgeour’s at the end, and the glower he gives Draco as he passes would terrify a lesser man. Draco spent seven years under the watchful eye of Severus Snape, however. He’s quite capable of ignoring disapproving glares.

It’s early yet, and there’s barely a soul in the building. Somewhere in an office Draco catches the quiet rustle of a Copying Charm, most likely an instructor putting together a course packet for one of the morning’s sessions for new recruits. They did rather like their binders for first-years. Draco still has two whole bookshelves back at the flat filled with his copies, dealing with everything from proper arrest procedures to the history of British wizarding law.

The twists and turns of the dingy grey-walled hallways are second-nature now; he’d spent the better part of three years in these rooms himself, before he’d been approved for field instruction. He takes the stairs down to the instructor’s gym and the blessedly hot showers there. One of the great advantages of passing the Auror Board Exam is the privilege of using the good showers in the training centre, or at least he thinks so. No more filthy, always cold showers on the recruits’ side; instead he’s got clean towels and decent soaps. Pansy says the women’s showers are even better, with proper shampoo and foams that smell like summers in Provence.

Halfway through the empty sparring room, Draco’s already tugging at his kit, pulling his hoodie over his head. His clothes for the day are tucked in the pocket, miniaturized in a leather holdall his mother had bought for him when his first posting in Northumberland came through. He drops it on the nearest bench inside the locker room door. There’s a shower already running, and Draco frowns. He doesn’t like it when someone else makes it in before him. It’s partly a matter of pride—Draco’s gone out of his way over the years to put in more hours than anyone else on his team and he doesn’t want to stop that now that he’s back in training—and part of it’s pure pragmatism. Communal showers are a dangerous place when you’re disliked on sight; nudity, tiled walls, and slick floors don’t combine well with a kicking. He’d spent four months hiding bruises when he’d come in as a new recruit, but he can’t protest. Not really. It’s not as if he and Vince and Greg hadn’t done the same thing once or twice in Hogwarts. He’d sent an apology to Dennis Creevey that first year. It’d been returned in shreds.

Draco stops short at of the entrance to the shower room, towel wrapped tightly around his waist. Steam billows past him. Through it he can see a man’s back, long and lean, muscles taut beneath slick skin as he runs his hands through his wet hair. Water pours from the showerhead, streaming over his shoulders, running in rivulets down his spine. He shifts and his arse, firm and round, dimples in just the right way to catch Draco’s breath. He’s tall and golden and bloody lush all over.

It’s been months since Draco’s had a shag--or been shagged for that matter. More than that, really. Over a year ago Nicholas had slammed the door behind him on his way out of Draco’s flat, and that particular relationship had only lasted from Easter to Hallowe’en. Draco can’t take his eyes off the man in the shower. He’s just Draco’s type: fit, dark-haired, and with a bloody perfect arse that Draco wants to spread open, pushing into it, water slick against their skin, the tile cool against his palms as he thrusts forward—

Draco steps back, shaken by the wave of desire that washes over him. The man turns slightly, his hip angled towards Draco, and Draco can see the soft curve of his flaccid prick, ruddy and wet in a nest of dark curls. Water drips off the tip, spattering against the floor. The man’s cock is big, more than enough for a mouthful, and Draco wonders how it would swell against his lips, how long it might grow beneath his tongue, pressing back that soft sheath of foreskin. It’s all he can to do keep himself still, only slightly hidden behind the jut of the lockers, rather than striding forward and dropping to his knees.

The thought of another kicking holds him back. The force isn’t overly fond of poofs, he knows that damned well. They say it doesn’t matter, but it does, when you walk into a room like this. It’s bad enough to get the side-eye glances and scowls for his name alone—not to mention the ragged scar that mars his left arm where the Dark Mark once had been, obliterated now thanks to a drunken night and the improper use of a Diffindo or twenty. He doesn’t want them muttering _poofter, ponce, bumboy, shirt-lifter, pervert_ at him as well while their fists and boots slam into his body once again.

A shake of the man’s head sends water flying across the shower room. A drop hits Draco’s bare shoulder. It’s warm and smells like almond soap. The man turns, lifting his head to the showerhead, his eyes closed against the spray of water.

Harry Potter.

Draco’s throat tightens on him. Shit. Shit. His gaze drops down to Potter’s cock, now on full display, curved just enough to the right to brush against Potter’s tan thigh, and Draco wants so bloody badly that he can’t bear it. His own prick’s swelling, and Draco can’t let Potter see that, can’t let Potter of all people know what response Draco’s had to his body.

And it’s just a sodding body.

That’s all.

At least, that’s what Draco tells himself as he steps back, grabbing his kit and holdall from the locker room bench. A flick of his wand and his clothes are back on him, or at least enough to cover him in the centre’s public spaces. Suddenly the cold showers in the recruits’ gym don’t sound so terrible.

He flees, the door to the locker room slamming shut behind him.

***

“What the hell is Potter doing back in London?” Draco sets his tray down on the table more forcefully than he means to. He can’t help it; he’s been thinking about Potter’s muscled back and his delicious arse all bloody morning. “Isn’t he supposed to be in Liechtenstein?”

“Wasn’t it Bruges?” Blaise glances up from his wilted salad as Draco takes the seat across from him, a vague look of interest crossing his face. A limp leaf of rocket dangles from his fork. The commissary in the Ministry has been shit lately; Draco’s heard rumors that the elves are disgruntled again.

“Luxembourg,” Pansy says from behind a copy of _Knight’s Forensic Pathology_ , her voice muffled by a bite of her prawn sandwich. She’s been training for the past two years to be part of the magi-forensics team, and Draco's used to her eating with all manner of grim texts spread out across the table. She lowers her book and eyes him. There’s a tiny smudge of mayonnaise at the corner of her mouth, but Draco doesn’t dare point it out. “Potter’s been on some international task force at the General Secretariat. Sharing techniques on international policing or some bollocks.”

Draco pokes at the greyish lump of chicken on his plate; it squelches beneath the tines of his fork. Whoever’s narked the elves off this time better apologise soon. He’s in need of a proper lunch, thanks ever so. “Well, he’s back now.” At Pansy’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs. “Saw him in the Centre showers this morning.”

Pansy’s eyebrow goes higher, irritating Draco. “Leave off,” he snaps. He can feel his face heat already; he can still see the stretch of Potter’s body as he leant into the shower spray. His stomach flips at the thought, and all he wants to do is rush off to the loo and wank himself raw. It’d taken standing under cold water for a half an hour this morning to soften his prick, but he refuses to let Potter get to him. Or at least that’s what he’s telling himself. Deep down inside, he’s afraid that if he starts pulling himself off to thoughts of Potter’s perfect naked body, he’ll never stop.

“I didn’t say anything.” Pansy dabs a serviette at her mouth. The mayonnaise disappears. Somehow her crimson lipstick stays intact.

“You were going to.” The chicken’s blander than Draco could have imagined. He barely manages to swallow it without choking.

Pansy leans back in her chair. Her dark hair’s pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck as Auror standards require.  The severity suits her, though, as do the slate-blue robes she wears on laboratory days. “Well, really, you, Potter, showers? Sounds like a schoolboy wank fantasy come to life.”

“Go to hell,” Draco says, but he doesn’t mean it, not really. Except perhaps he does. A bit. Pansy’s always been able to get under his skin at just the wrong time. Those brown eyes of hers are a bit too sharp, a bit too knowing for his comfort. He knows he’s not fooling her, any more than he’s fooling himself.

Blaise snorts. “She’s not wrong, though. It’s not as if you haven’t fancied him before. Need I point out the majority of our Hogwarts years?”

Not for the first time, Draco’s grateful for the wide berth most of the other Aurors still give their table. No need to worry about being overheard, particularly with the scrape of cutlery against plates, not to mention the rise and fall of conversations around them.

“Just a ridiculous schoolboy pash,” Draco says, stabbing his knife into the chicken breast. It scrapes against the plate, and he winces. “Besides, everyone fancies Potter at some point. Haven’t you seen the papers? It’s evidently a sodding requirement for existence in this day and age to be infatuated with Saint Potter.” He knows his voice is petulant, and that annoys him even more. He can’t help himself, though. Potter’s always irritated him, and Draco can’t stand the fact that he’s never been able to be near Potter and _not_ be aware of him. Even during the war, that night Potter was dragged into the Manor, Draco had known it was him. How could he not? However swollen and distorted Potter’s face was, Draco had still recognised its planes and curves. He’d spent years studying it, after all. His father has never forgiven him that moment of weakness, that instinctive need to protect Potter at all costs, but he can sod off, really. Draco’s spent years living down Lucius’ horrible life choices. The thought of his father irks him more, and he scowls at his friends. “Besides it’s not like the both of you haven’t said you’d shag him.” He abandons the horrid, bland chicken and spears a shriveled roasted potato instead. It’s only slightly more edible.

“I blame the plonk you were pouring us at the time,” Pansy says, but the corner of her mouth quirks up.  

Draco gives her a scathing glare. “That was a Pauillac, you utter Philistine.” Pansy just takes another prim bite of her sandwich.

“Well, I for one would pound him into the nearest mattress—or go arse up for him if he prefers.” Blaise pushes his plate away. “Tosser or not, he’s bloody well fit.” He eyes Draco. “What exactly did you see in the shower? Is it true that he’s hung like—“

“Blaise,” Pansy says with a sigh. “Don’t.”

A flash of ire burns through Draco, bright and quick. He knows that particular look on Blaise’s face all too well, and if he doesn’t put a stop to it, he’ll end up walking in on Blaise with his prick in Potter’s scrumptious mouth. It’s happened before with blokes Draco’s mentioned in passing, and he doesn’t think he could laugh this one off-- which bothers him more than he’d like. He points his fork at Blaise. “Keep your cock away from him, slag.”

Blaise blinks at Draco, then he frowns, a small furrow forming between his impeccably groomed brows. He runs a hand over his close-cropped, dark hair. “Merlin’s balls, you really do fancy a bit of rumpy-pumpy with Potter, don’t you?”

“Shut it.” Draco drops his fork onto his tray and wipes his hands on a useless scrap of serviette. You only get proper cloth napkins in the executive dining room. Potter’s probably in there right now, the bastard, jollying it up with Robards and Shacklebolt.

“No,” Blaise says, with a shake of his head. “It’s madness, you do know. You and him? I don’t care if that serpent on your forearm’s been sliced up enough for the Aurors. It’s still there under the scars, and if you go anywhere near Potter, the whole lot of them’ll come down on you like Hephaestus’ bloody anvil.”

Draco leans forward. “You think I’m not aware? Circe, you twat. I spent my first two years getting the shit kicked out of me. I know when to leave off, especially when Saint Potter’s involved.”

Pansy slaps her hand against the table, making the china jump on Draco’s tray. Heads turn toward them, but the glances slide away quickly. Most of the Ministry would like to pretend they don’t exist, despite Robards and Shacklebolt.  Draco sits stiffly, his shoulders hunched. He doesn’t like to be the centre of attention. Not in this respect, at least.

“Enough, the both of you,” Pansy says, her voice quiet but sharp. The glint in her eye brooks no argument. “You idiots are arguing over sodding _Potter_ for the love of Merlin.” Her lip curls. “I mean, _really._ ”

Blaise gives her a half-smile. “Foolish, are we?”

“Yes.” Pansy looks disgusted. “Honestly, Draco can be forgiven; Potter’s been his bête noire and sexual fantasy since puberty kicked in. One expects him to be an idiot, particularly on a day when he seems to have got a forbidden glimpse of Chosen Willy. He’s not in his right mind, and why should he be? Although, to be honest, I’d have though he’d have lurked around the Quidditch showers in school—“

“I’m quite offended,” Draco says, feeling sullen. “I had better things to do in school than try to catch sight of Potter’s cock.”

Pansy ignores him, turning to Blaise. “However, I demand you have better taste.”

“Fair enough.” Blaise drops his fork into his salad bowl. He looks at Draco. “Dawlish wants us on Hampstead Heath this afternoon. Chadwick head a rumour we’re to be practicing some new variant of stealth charms the Unspeakables have cooked up.”

That cheers Draco a bit. He’s always interested in new charms, and he particularly likes the Unspeakable variants. They’re not afraid to try spells that might be a bit on the grey side of the law. Anyway, anything is better than baring his soul, or his libido at least, to his best friends.

Slytherins can be vicious—and not only in bed.  

***

Draco's the last to Apparate from the Heath back to the training centre; he wants one last attempt to try the new stealth charms. Dawlish had worked the whole cohort into a lather over the course of the afternoon, pushing them hard as they attempted to conceal themselves among the brush of Springett's Wood and the Dueling Ground without their charms being detected or destroyed by each other. It'd been harder than any of them anticipated; while the new variants are much stronger once the magical theory clicks in, they're also slippery and require more focus to learn. At one point Draco'd thought he'd had it, then he'd caught a glimpse of Potter standing beside Dawlish, his regulation Auror's coat hanging open in a must disturbingly non-regulation manner, all rumpled black wool trimmed in inspector's red and hair mussed by the breeze, a thick olive-green scarf wrapped around his neck and the late afternoon sun glinting off his round specs as he laughed at something Dawlish had said. The charm that Draco'd nearly mastered slipped away, leaving him vulnerable to Shah’s Stinging Hex, and he's yet to pull himself together enough to do it properly again.

And so he stays on the Heath as the others pop back to the Barbican, their exhaustion evident. This charm's bloody beast.

"You ready to go?" Blaise asks, but Draco just shakes his head, hunkering back against a tree trunk. He's still eyeing Potter, who leans into a conversation with Dawlish and Proudfoot, his next-in-charge. Blaise follows his gaze, then snorts. "Tell me you aren't trying to impress Potter."

"Don't be ridiculous." Of course he's not. That would be idiotic; even Draco knows that. "If we don't learn this, we won't pass the new cert. You heard Dawlish." It's a plausible excuse, and Blaise knows Draco wants this step up in the Auror force. Only ten of them are up for the certification; if the usual statistics hold, a third of them will either burn out or fail the training. Draco doesn't intend to be one of that lot.

Blaise doesn't look convinced. "You don't have to master it today." Draco just shrugs, and Blaise sighs. "Fine, whatever. I'm back to the showers, then the lads are talking about a few rounds down the Leaky. Care to join us?"

"Later." He won't, and Blaise knows that. Blaise at least makes the attempt to be chummy with the others. It doesn't always work, not if they remember he sorted Slytherin, but Blaise'll have no chance in hell if Draco shows up. Best he doesn't bother. For a moment he thinks Blaise might try to talk him out of it, but he just nods instead. 

"Firecall me if you'd like," Blaise says, and then he's gone with a muffled crack. 

Draco pulls the remnants of the spell around him, letting the charm settle over his shoulders, cup his hair. He can feel it spark lightly against his skin, and he breathes the magic in, sinking deeper into the shadows of the tree. He watches as Dawlish glances around the clearing, then, satisfied that his men are gone, raises a hand to Potter before he Disapparates. Potter only hesitates a moment, his back to Draco, coat stretched across his wide shoulders, and then he's nothing but a wisp of black smoke that fades, leaving Draco alone.

It's the first moment all day Draco's had to himself since his run this morning. He sinks down to the ground; the black loam's cold beneath his palms, and the rotting leaves crackle as he shifts. The charm holds though as Draco exhales, letting his mind go blank. Dusk is falling, and the shadows of the trees lengthen around him. He doesn't bother with a warming spell. He's not certain he could hold it along with the stealth charm, and anyway, he likes the chill air on his skin. At moments like this the Heath reminds him of Wiltshire, or at least the Wilts of his childhood when he ran through the forests with Greg and Vince at his heels or leant over the riverbank, sending twigs floating down the Wylye.

Draco misses the countryside, really. It's not that he dislikes London. But he wasn't raised here, not like Pansy and Blaise. They're Londoners born and bred. Draco prefers the quiet of a setting more bucolic than the grimy grey stone of the capital. Here at least he can pretend for a moment he's not in the tumult of the city. 

He doesn't know how long he sits. The light's nearly gone before he stirs. He's cold and tired, but his mind feels clear and calm again. The charm's still holding, to his surprise. Draco keeps it wrapped tightly around him as he Apparates back to the Barbican, just to see if he can. It doesn't slip once; he tests it as he strides down the steps to the sparring room. Most everyone's gone, but the few who linger don't even give him a second glance. 

It's the smugness that's his downfall, really. 

The showers are nearly empty; Draco can only hear two, perhaps three, in use. He shucks off his clothes, not even bothering to wrap his towel around his waist. Why, if his stealth charm is still in place? It's not as if anyone's noticing him, after all. 

He turns the corner towards the back row of showers. They're nearly always empty at this hour, and the water will be warmer. There's only one shower going back here; he glances into it without thinking.

Potter.

Draco's feet stumble. He catches himself against the wall. For a moment he thinks his stealth charm has crumbled; when he glances back at Potter, he almost seems to be looking at Draco, but no, that's not it. Potter shifts beneath the spray.  He hasn't seen him, Draco realises, with a flutter of relief. He checks the charm; it's still in place.

He knows he should move on. He's cold, and he reeks of sweat from the afternoon's exercises. But if Draco's honest with himself, which he'd rather not be, he's also fully aware that he could have Apparated back to his flat for a shower. He could have picked his things up in the morning; there wasn't any need to come back here. Secretly, he'd hoped this would happen. That he'd have another chance to see Potter, to enjoy that slick expanse of skin tapering down into the curve of Potter's arse, the stretch of Potter's shoulders as he lathered up. 

Draco feels filthy; he'd hate it if anyone watched him like this, but he can't help himself. Potter's bloody gorgeous against the white tile, the water spilling down over him and puddling at his feet. Draco's grateful for the stealth charm as he leans against the wall. It's cold and damp against his back, but he doesn't care. 

Potter soaps his chest, his wide hand circling across dark fuzz. He turns into the water, just enough so Draco can see his taut, hard brown nipples. Soap drips off them, then disappears into the rivulets of water running across his skin. Draco wants to catch a nipple between his teeth, tongue flicking lightly against it. He wonders what noise Potter would make, if he would groan or just gasp as he ran his fingers through Draco's wet hair. 

Another half-turn and Potter's almost facing him, his body centered perfectly in the entrance to the shower cubicle. Draco can't tear his gaze away, especially not as Potter's hand drifts lower in a trail of soap. Potter's fingers stop just above the wiry thatch at the base of his cock, and Draco stills. Potter's prick is half-hard, lifting just enough from Potter's thigh. Potter's thumb brushes through the dark curls, and he breathes out, his eyes drifting closed, face turned up into the spray. 

Draco knows he should leave. This is a terrible idea; if Potter ever finds out Draco watched him like this--well. Draco's bloody damned certain his time in the Aurors would be over. He still can't turn away.

Potter's fingers slide around his cock, then slip along the shaft, barely touching it. Once. Twice. Each stroke pushes the head out from Potter's foreskin, which he slips back over it, fingertips tugging and twisting as he lets out a soft sigh. 

Fucking hell, Draco thinks. It's not as if he hasn't watched someone wank before. You can't spend your adolescence in a dormitory and not have some exposure to other blokes' masturbatory habits, and, besides, he's had sexual partners who've performed for his pleasure. But still, there's something about Potter's face as his fingertip slides across the slit at the tip of his cock, almost pressing it open, that makes Draco shudder with want. He clenches his towel in one hand while the other steals forward to brush his own prick. He's already stiffening, eyes fixed on Potter's fist as it slides slowly along his shaft. Circe, Potter's killing him like that. He wants it faster, wants Potter to tense and shake, to press his body against Draco's-- _fuck._ He bites back a moan, but it still comes out in a breathy rasp. Potter's hand stills for a moment, but he can't have heard Draco over the rush of the shower. 

Of course he hasn't; Draco'd be mad to think otherwise. Potter just stops to lean back against the wet wall of the shower cubicle, his other hand slipping down to cup his bollocks as his thumb circles again over the slit of his slick glans. He's silent as he strokes himself, foreskin sliding back along his shaft, swollen red head thrusting through his fist, but his shoulders heave with his heavy breaths.

Draco follows Potter's movements with his own, his fingers curling and twisting around his prick. He's almost horrified by himself, by what he's doing, but he can't make himself care. Later he'll be humiliated, but for now, he just wants to watch Potter fuck his hand like that, Potter's head pressed back against the wall, his bottom lip caught between two teeth as his hips thrust forward into the hot spray of the water, pressing into his tight grasp.

Anyone could walk around the corner and see Potter like this, cheeks flushed, thighs shaking, cock hard and high in his hand, fingers pulling at the soft, furry skin of his sac. The thought makes Draco want to drop to his knees in the puddled water, take Potter into his mouth, and suck him until he howls.

Instead he grips his cock, squeezes it to keep himself from spilling right then. 

Potter, however, doesn't bother to hold back. The flush has spread down to his chest, and he's openly gasping now, soft grunts coming with each rough tug of his prick. His feet are spread wide, his knees bent, and for a moment Draco can imagine Potter looming over him, eager to come across Draco's pale belly. 

_Christ, please,_ Draco wants to say. He knows this is mad. He'll never get this image out of his mind; he'll be wanking to memories of this for years. He wonders how many people have seen Potter like this, so open, so vulnerable. Potter's kept to himself for years; Draco's barely seen him since school, despite working in the same department. Potter's meant for greater things than a disgraced Malfoy. But right now Draco doesn't care how wrong it might be to wank himself to the sight of Potter this undone. 

And Potter nearly is. He's flat against the shower wall, as if it's the only thing holding him upright, his fist pumping his prick hard and fast. HIs other hand slaps the tile, fingers splayed, pressing against the wet porcelain, and for a moment his eyes fly open, and Draco can't look away from his gaze, even though he knows Potter's not seeing him. With a loud groan, Potter's fingers clench around the head of his cock and spunk spurts through them, thick and white, falling in strands from his fingertips to splatter against the wet floor. The water washes them away, down the drain, and Potter slumps a bit, his breath ragged and raw. 

It takes everything Draco has not to come right then. He stills, his fingers still wrapped around his shaft, his towel tight in his other hand.

"Fuck," Potter says after a moment, and then he laughs softly and shakes his head. He turns back towards the water, letting it rinse himself clean.

Draco's hand moves again, slowly, his heart thudding against his chest as Potter turns the water off. Potter's back is to him, and thin rivulets of water run across the smooth globes of his arse, disappearing between them. A shiver runs through Draco. He wants to thrust his cock into Potter's arse, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Potter's hips. What would it feel like to have Potter beneath him, body pressing up to meet Draco's? 

Potter reaches for the towel hanging on the hook outside his shower cubicle, and dries himself off before wrapping the towel around his waist. He steps out, barely inches away from Draco, and Draco draws away, afraid of Potter stumbling into him. Potter smells like almond soap, with just a hint of spunk and musk. It's almost like an aphrodisiac for Draco. Nothing he's ever smelt has been so bloody erotic. 

He watches Potter walk away, arse moving beneath his towel, before he drops his own towel and throws himself into Potter's abandoned shower cubicle. It still smells like Potter, and the tile's still warm from Potter's skin. Draco wanks himself like a madman, fingers tugging and pulling, his foreskin sliding hotly against his shaft. He sinks to the floor, legs spread wide, hips bucking up, cock pressing into his tight fist. 

It only takes a moment or two, and then Draco's coming, biting back the cry that wants to spill out with the sticky spunk that covers his fingers, his prick. _Potter_ , he wants to say, but he doesn't, and he lies there in the cooling water, spent and squalid, the very portrait of pathetic depravity. 

He hates himself for this weakness. Potter's always been the one person who could break him. Draco doesn't know why. He's certain if Potter could see him now, he'd be aghast and disturbed. He'd have Draco called up before Dawlish in the shake of Crup's tail. If he didn't, he'd be a fool, and, though Draco wouldn't ever admit it, he doesn't think Potter's that much of an idiot.

Somehow he manages to push himself to his feet. He turns on the shower and leans his head against the wall, letting the water wash over him.

It's a long time before he feels even the slightest bit clean.

***

"Well, you've obviously lost your mind, darling, " Pansy says through a mouthful of Stilton. She sits on the sofa next to Draco, the frame creaking as she tucks her bare feet beneath her. She balances a lipstick-stained wineglass in one hand and another hunk of cheese in the other. "If he'd caught you--"

"He didn't." Draco sinks further into the corner of the sofa. He'd come back to the flat and changed into his most comfortable pair of faded grey joggers and a tattered red Auror Quidditch team hoodie, singed and worn from his recruit days, before firecalling Pansy to come over with a bottle of wine. It's half-gone now, sitting on the flat-topped antique trunk he uses as a coffee table, next to the plastic-wrapped Stilton from Waitrose he'd had tucked away in the back of the refrigerator.

Pansy takes a sip of her shiraz. Her dark hair's down around her shoulders now, and she looks exhausted. She'd Floo'd in almost immediately, only stopping to grab the wine and exchange her scrubs top for a thick fisherman's jumper two sizes too big for her. It's a relic from her last relationship, with Anthony Goldstein. She'd run the bastard away, she said with a wry smile the first time Draco'd seen her in it after the breakup, but she'd be damned if she was going to give up a jumper this cosy. Draco suspects it's more than that. Tony'd been the love of her life, whether or not she wants to admit it. 

"I've never seen you as the voyeur type," Pansy says after a moment. 

Draco drains his wineglass. "It's not as if I went out of my way." He leans forward and pours another glass of wine from the bottle. The telly's on across the room, tuned to the Puddlemere-Holyhead match with the sound charm off. He watches as Oliver Wood blocks a Quaffle from the hoops, sending it back over the Harpies' heads. There's a flash of ginger hair as Ginny Weasley goes after it, bent low over her broom. Draco wonders if the commentators are once again mentioning her old relationship with Potter. That had imploded years back, but it seems once one's coupled in the popular media with the Saviour of the Wizarding World, one always seems to be within his shadow, no matter what. He feels a twinge of pity for Weasley. He can't imagine that she's best pleased with that; he certainly wouldn't be.

Pansy's hand settles on his back. She rubs her fingertips lightly against his shoulder blades, most likely smearing crumbs of Stilton across his hoodie. He doesn't particularly care at the moment; he feels apathetic, really. It's not like him, and he finds it all rather annoying. "Go ahead. Tell me how deplorable I am."

"I would, if I didn't think you'd quite like me to," Pansy says. Her hand disappears; he misses her warm touch. "You've been sadsacking for the past half-hour about how terrible you are. If it bothers you that much, just go tell him, _Merlin._ "

"You're no comfort." Draco leans back into the sofa. He eyes her. There's a smudge of something brownish-red on the knee of her scrubs bottoms. He hopes it just a bit of potion or brown sauce and not some body fluid from one of the cadavers in St Mungo's morgue that the magi-forensicologists play with from time to time.

Pansy breaks off a bit of Stilton from the wedge on the trunk and pops it into her mouth. "If you wanted comfort you'd have rung up Greg and had him bring over a bottle of firewhisky. What you want is absolution from the mortal sin of wanting to shag Potter, and I hate to tell you, my dearest and oldest friend, but you're fully aware you won't get that from me."

She's right and he knows it. He sighs. "It's his fault. If he hadn't been in the shower--"

"Yes," Pansy says dryly. "How dare he use facilities available to him. The nerve of the wanker." She laughs, a bit too loudly, then claps her hand over her mouth. "Literally."

He shakes his head and lifts his glass to his mouth. "You know what I mean."

Pansy shrugs and tops off her shiraz. On the telly the United score a goal through the hoops to the joy of half the stadium judging by the storm of navy and gold scarves being waved in the air. "What are you going to do?" she asks. "You could say something to him, I suppose."

"Not bloody likely." Draco leans his head against the curved back of the sofa. He loves this room with its high ceiling and dark blue walls. Heavy walnut bookcases line one wall, light from the sconces glinting off the glass doors and the arched bay windows across from them. The wooden floors are stained almost black, and a thick, fluffy cream rug's spread out in front of the hearth. Next to the kitchen I t's his favourite place in the flat. He wonders if he'll have to give it up if he loses his place on the force. There's not much family money left, what with the reparations required by the Ministry and the thousands upon thousands of Galleons Mother has paid to the solicitors to keep his father out of Azkaban. Supposedly there's an account in the Geneva branch of Gringotts, but neither of his parents talk about it. Draco suspects that's what they're living off of now. He doesn't really care. He doesn't need them, or at least he hasn't for the past six years. Circe only knows what will happen if he falls out of favour with Robards, and having Potter turn on him would guarantee that.

"You know you want some of that Chosen Willy," Pansy says with a laugh over the rim of her glass. Her eyes are bit too bright, and Draco knows she'll be sleeping the wine off on his sofa later. 

He gives her a faint smile. "Get stuffed."

"I rather think that's your department, love." Pansy sets her glass down and curls up against him, her head on his shoulder. Draco drapes one arm around her. She lies silent for a moment, then looks up at him, a small furrow between her brows. "Be careful."

Draco smooths her fringe back from her eyes. "Aren't I always?"

"This is Potter," Pansy says. She twists her fingers in the neck of her jumper.  "You've never been able to keep your head around him. But he's higher up now; he could really hurt you. Or your reputation, and you've been working so hard for so long."

Draco nods, knowing that every word she says is utter truth. And yet? He couldn't care less. Something about this intimacy, this vulnerability of Potter's has driven him utterly mad. Watching him is addictive, and the deeper Draco slides into this madness, the more pleasurable it becomes. It's swiftly overtaking the rest of his thoughts, he can't stop seeing Potter wherever he goes. His imagination wants nothing else but Potter.

"I don't really have a chance to convince you, do I?" Pansy smiles up at him, a bit wanly, and Draco realises she's been talking as he's been somewhere else mentally. "Well, send me the occasional owl from hell, won't you? Or at least a photo of Potter's arse."

He squeezes her shoulder and takes a sip of shiraz, looking away. "I know what I'm doing. I promise." 

They're both quite aware that's a lie.

***

Pansy's still curled up on the sofa under the cloud-grey cashmere blanket, nothing but her tangled hair visible, when Draco leaves the next morning. He's left a hangover potion beside her, along with a glass of water and an alarm clock. His own dose of potion hasn't yet kicked in, but he's hoping it will as he runs.

It's earlier than he usually leaves, and he doesn't bother with the charm over his ears today. He wants to hear the city wake up around him, the rumble of the early morning lorry deliveries and the rattle of storefronts being opened, the swish of tyres against damp asphalt and the barks of the dogs from side gardens and front windows as he runs past. His head aches; his steps carry him past the staid white walls of the British Museum and through the grey streets of Holborn. He pauses before crossing Farringdon Road, waiting just long enough at the light for a cab and a red bus to pass. It's twenty minutes he can be alone, three miles of perfect solitude at dawn as he makes his way across the city to the Barbican. It feels strange to run it today, to realise that it's just been twenty-four hours since his world topsy-turveyed into madness. 

Draco breathes out with each slap of his trainers against the pavement, his gloved hands clenched into fists. He wonders if he can outrun the turmoil inside of him, these idiotic thoughts of Potter that keep crowding into his brain, keeping him from sleep. When he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a shop window--hair rumpled beneath his knit cap and eyes wild--he flinches. This isn't who he wants to be, this mad creature obsessed with Potter, and as he makes his way once more past the red brick and wrought iron of Smithfield Market Draco swears to himself that he'll let all of this go. "Potter means nothing to me," he says in an uneven rasp, his throat aching in the cold. The more he says it, the more he believes it, every step he takes willing it into truth. The tightness around his chest eases. He's made a mistake, but it isn't catastrophic. No one knows but his friends, and Pansy'll be mollified when he firecalls later to tell her he's put this temporary lunacy aside. Perhaps he'll take her to dinner as an apology; she's been wanting to try the new Algerian place down Diagon.

The Centre's empty when he reaches it. Unsurprising, given the hour, but Draco's still relieved. He makes his way to the Auror showers, feeling less anxious than he has since yesterday. With a cheerful whistle on his lips, he pushes open the door to the locker room.

Potter's there.

Naked. Lying on a bench, legs on either side, his towel beneath him, eyes closed. His glasses are on top of a pile of folded clothes, his dark hair's still damp and curling from the shower. His cock is soft, curled between his spread thighs. 

Draco draws up short, his hand still on the door, holding it open. _Fuck,_ his mind says, and, judging from the shiver that goes through his body, it agrees, perhaps not in the same way. 

Potter's eyes open at Draco's sharp breath; he turns his head. "Hi," he says, but he doesn't bother to cover himself. 

"Sorry," Draco says with a stammer, and he turns to go. He can't do this. He won't. He needs to get out. Now.

"Wait."

Draco hesitates, then looks back at Potter. He's sitting up now, broad shoulders hunched just a bit, cock still on display between his thighs. His dark hair's falling across his forehead, into his eyes. "What?" Draco asks, doing his best to sound as imperious as he can. It's not enough; Potter's mouth twitches to one side.

"Just so you know, your stealth charm is shit," Potter says, and Draco stills, horror seeping through him. "I mean, relatively speaking. You were still better than most of the lads out there yesterday, but you can't really hold it entirely when you're…" Potter hesitates, then smiles, a bright flash of teeth. "Otherwise occupied." 

"Thanks." Draco grips the edge of the door, his knuckles white. He wants to run. Desperately. He also doesn't want Potter to know he can get under Draco's skin, so he stays, trying not to avoid Potter's intent gaze. It's nearly impossible.

"You should be proud, though." Potter stands; Draco sways into the door before he can stop himself. "It took me a week straight of working with Hermione before I had it down, and she's the one who came up with it. I could never have picked it up as quickly as you did. You're not bad at stealth charms, you know." The smile flickers across Potter's face again. “You were just under pressure with inadequate preparation."

Draco can't look at him now--and he can't _not_ at the same time. It's too much, especially when Potter moves towards him, his prick bobbing with each step. 

"The initial problem," Potter says, his voice light, "is that you failed to take the towel into consideration. If it'd been on you, it would have been different. But if you're holding it, you have to extend the charm or the movement of the fabric breaks through." He stops in front of Draco, so close that Draco can smell the soap on him. Almonds again. 

Draco swallows. "I see," he manages. His cheeks are hot; he knows the flush must be seeping down his throat. 

Potter nods. "It's an easy mistake to make. And then, well. Distraction makes the charm falter." He brushes Draco's jaw with a fingertip. "But you liked what you saw yesterday morning too, didn't you?"

"I've no idea what you're on about." Draco licks his bottom lip; the words rasp out of his throat.

"You watched." Potter's eyes are ridiculously, stupidly green. "I caught a glimpse of you. And then you came back." His voice is soft, almost a whisper. "Do you like watching, Malfoy?"

"No." 

Potter raises an eyebrow. "Really." His hand slides down the flat plane of his stomach. "So if I did this…" Potter takes his swelling prick in his palm. "And did this…" His thumb strokes along the top, pushing the foreskin over the head. "You wouldn't care."

The sound of Draco's breathing is cacophonous in his ears. "Why should I?" he manages.

Potter just smiles again and steps back, his hand tightening around his cock. "Shut the sodding door, Malfoy."

Draco hesitates.

"Now," Potter says, and the sharp command in his voice makes Draco want to sink to his knees. He lets the door fall closed behind him, and when Potter wards it with a flick of his fingers and a murmured incantation, a wave of pure lust pushes Draco further into the room. He's always been drawn to power, and wandless magic is like a bloody popper to him, making him want and want and want.

Potter sits on the edge of a bench, knees spread wide, his fingers tugging at his prick. "Kit off," he says. "I want to see more than the bits I got a peek at yesterday."

Draco's already shucking his hoodie off. It falls to the floor, his warrant card and shrunken holdall clattering together in the front pocket. The knit cap lands on top of it. His t-shirt follows, and then his trainers and joggers. His cock's already swelling in his y-fronts, and before he can tug them down, Potter's other hand is on Draco's prick, squeezing it through the white cotton. 

"Big," Potter says. He rubs his thumb along the shaft. "I thought so when you were wanking…" He trails off, then the tip of his tongue presses out between his lips for the slightest moment. "Christ." His fingers hook in the waistband of the y-fronts and pull at them, letting the tip of Draco's prick slip out. 

"Are you going to watch it or suck it?" A flutter of nervous prurience twists Draco's stomach at his own boldness--Potter is his superior officer, after all--but Potter just looks at him for the briefest second before he leans in and presses his lips to the head of Draco's cock. Draco's breath stutters; he catches himself on Potter's shoulders as he wobbles forward. Potter's fingers dig into Draco's hips; somehow his y-fronts end up scrunched beneath his bollocks as Potter's mouth envelops Draco's prick in wet heat down to the bloody base. "Merlin," Draco whispers, entranced by the sight, and Potter draws back, letting his lips drag along the length of Draco's shaft. 

Potter's utterly brilliant at sucking cock, and his tongue circles Draco's glans, pressing into the slit, his hands stroking and twisting and cupping until Draco's bloody breathless with each quick slide of his foreskin down his prick. Draco wonders where Potter learnt this, if Potter'd spent his school years on his knees in Gryffindor Tower, or if this was a more recent acquisition of knowledge in the darkened loos of certain clubs across the Continent, strangers pressing their pricks into Potter's delicious mouth, the outline of their cockhead pushing into Potter's cheek when he turns his head, like that. 

"Fuck," Draco whispers, fingers tangling in Potter's wild hair, and Potter laughs around Draco's cock, forcing his lips further towards the base. Draco thinks he might actually die of desire; he can barely keep on his feet as he pushes his prick into Potter's face, Potter's lips stretched wide around it, the swollen head sliding along the hot inside of Potter's mouth.

And then Potter pulls back, Draco's cock popping out of his mouth with a slow, wet pop. Ruddy and wet with Potter's spit, it bobs next to Potter's lips, curved and hard. "Turnabout's only fair," Potter says, and he tugs Draco down, pushing him to his knees. 

Potter's prick is heavy and hard, the skin smooth and hot as Draco runs his mouth along the side. Potter hisses when Draco's thumb pushes his foreskin back to expose the head, fingers smoothing lightly across the leaking slit. 

"Careful," Potter says. He's watching Draco intently, and Draco flicks his tongue along the path of his fingertips before taking Potter into his mouth, tightening his lips around him as he pushes down, until Potter's cock presses back into the opening of his throat, nearly gagging Draco--just the way he likes it. His eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment, and he swallows as best he can around Potter's prick.  Potter groans and smooths Draco's hair back so he can see him. "Fucking hell, you're a filthy slag, aren't you?" Potter’s voice is strangely gentle. "A good little cocksucker, is that what others have told you? So goddamned lovely on your knees like this?"

It's exactly what Draco wants to hear, and he doesn't know how Potter seems to understand that instinctively. He touches his own cock, fingers barely slipping along the hard curve, as his head bobs around Potter's prick. Potter spreads his thighs wider, leans back, hands gripping the edges of the bench. This is hotter than anything Draco had fantasised about while watching Potter. Potter's salty-sweet, and his swollen prick fits into Draco's mouth better than any other one Draco's sucked over the years. He wants to feel Potter's hot spunk in his mouth, wants to suck and swallow until Potter's spent beneath him.

Potter doesn't let him. 

He pushes Draco away gently, despite Draco's faint mewl of protest. Potter's breathing hard, and a flush has spread across his chest. "Not yet," Potter chokes out, and somehow Draco manages to end up sprawled across the wide wooden bench, flat on his back as Potter straddles his hips, Potter's towel scrunched uncomfortably beneath his shoulder blades. He doesn't give a fuck about any of that, though, the moment Potter smooths his hands over Draco’s chest, across the thin, faded scars that twist around Draco’s nipples, down his sternum to his navel. 

“Sixth year,” Potter murmurs. His eyes are dark; the corners of his mouth turn down. 

“There wasn’t enough dittany,” Draco says. He feels as if his voice is miles away. Potter’s thumbnail scrapes across one of his nipples; it feels incredible, and Draco bites his lip as Potter does it again.

“Christ, I was an arsehole back then.” Potter sounds contrite. Draco doesn’t like that.

“You still are,” Draco snaps. “But that’s in the past, and this is now, so are you going to mope about your adolescent failings like a spotty, pathetic tosser, or are you going to bloody well make it up to me by getting me off?” He reaches for Potter’s hips, fingers pressing against Potter’s hipbone. “God, you’re a sodding cocktease, aren’t you?”

Potter’s breath catches and he rocks forward, his cock sliding across Draco's. “Better?”

"Shit," Draco says, and Potter laughs, rocking his hips into Draco’s again.

"Filthy fuck, weren't you, yesterday?" Potter's voice is low and heated. "Watching me wank in the shower." He leans forward, hands on the edge of the bench as he presses his prick into Draco's. Draco can barely stand it; he wants to have his legs free, wants to wrap them around Potter's hips so he can push up properly, stroke their cocks together. Potter's mouth brushes Draco's jaw, teeth nipping just so. "Did you like my performance for you?" Potter doesn't wait for Draco to answer. "Thought I'd do it just for you, knowing you were hiding there, watching me, that perfect little prick of yours hard and wet because of me." 

"Yes," Draco hisses. "So filthy for you." He squirms beneath Potter, desperate for the feel of Potter's cock on his. He turns his head and catches Potter's mouth with his. Potter makes a soft noise, and then he's kissing Draco, one knee coming up on the bench between Draco's thighs. It's all Draco needs. He wraps his now-free leg around Potter's hip, pulling him closer as Potter ravages his mouth, teeth scraping over Draco's bottom lip, tongue pressing against Draco's. 

Potter pulls back, breathless. His hips are still moving, slowly, agonisingly, his cock dragging along Draco's, making him mad with lust. Draco's skin prickles, bursts into heat; his entire existence is condensed into the shudders of pleasure radiating from his groin. "Tell me," Potter chokes out, his eyes bright and wild. He sounds as desperate as Draco feels. "Tell me what you wanted right then. When you were watching me."

"This." Draco twists beneath Potter. His heel digs into the small of Potter's back. "Fucking Circe, Potter, I wanted this. Everything. Your cock in my mouth. Me on you--" He breaks off in a ragged groan as Potter's hand slides between them, pressing their cocks together, stroking them against each other. "Bloody hell, I wanted you right there--" A sharp breath as his hips buck up against Potter's. "I wanted to take you—oh, _fuck_ , yes--shove you up against that wall and push my cock into that perfect little arse--"

He's cut off by Potter's mouth on his again, rough and eager. Potter shifts, pulls Draco up against him so they're both sitting, Draco's legs spread over Potter's muscular thighs, and Potter's hands are on Draco's wrists, tugging them behind Draco's back. 

"Fuck," Draco says against the soft skin of Potter's throat. He can barely move, balanced like this. Potter's hot and sticky against him, and Draco's cock throbs and twitches. He wants to come so bloody badly. 

Potter's teeth nip Draco's earlobe. He holds him still, their bodies pressed together. “You inside my arse sounds pretty brilliant,” Potter says. Draco breathes in the smell of Potter, of almonds and musk and slick, sweaty bodies. "But maybe instead I'll fuck _you_ so hard you're walking sideways for a month." The words are a hot, quiet huff against Draco's ear. "They'd all wonder what you did, but you'd know. Every time you shift you'd feel my cock inside you again." Draco shudders against Potter, and Potter laughs, a soft growl that goes straight to Draco's aching prick. "You'd like that too, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Draco admits, as much as he hates himself. Potter's fingers tighten around Draco's wrist, an almost involuntary spasm. "Please."

Potter buries his face in the curve of Draco's throat. "God, but I want to." He's muffled, breathing hard against Draco's loose hair. " _Fuck._ What you do to me, Malfoy. Jesus, you goddamned, sexy prat. Watching you watch me come—Merlin. I had dinner last night with Kingsley and Gawain, and I was randy as fuck the whole time, thinking about you with your hand on your prick. When I went home I nearly fucked my pillow into oblivion, wishing it was you."

“You pervert,” Draco says, with a faint smile, and Potter laughs against Draco’s skin. Circe, Draco doesn’t know how Potter can’t feel the pounding of Draco’s pulse against Potter’s lips. Draco’s whole bloody body is on fire. “Now I’ll have to turn you in to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Pillows.”

“Tragic.” Potter’s thighs shift beneath Draco’s. His cock bumps against Draco’s hipbone. “I could have you like this, you know. Let you ride me until we both pop, yeah?” He moves a finger, pressing the tip against the soft pucker of Draco’s hole; Draco feels himself twitch. “How tight are you, I wonder,” Potter breathes against Draco’s jaw. “How much could I fit in with one thrust? Just the head, or my whole prick?”

Draco doesn't move. He wants to remember this moment, the heat of his body, the ache in his shoulders, the raw, smarting tenderness of his cock, the soft press of Potter's mouth against his skin. The world will likely fall to hell afterwards, but he wants to remember this.

"This is mad," Potter says after a deep breath. "If Gawain knew--"

"He won't." Draco turns his face into Potter's hair. Robards won’t hear about this from him, that’s for certain.

"I'm your superior," Potter says. "You could make a complaint--"

Draco shifts, pushing his hips into Potter's as best as he can. "I won't." Why would he? They'd never believe him, anyway, and he doesn't want to. He'll live with this later; he'll hate himself for this weakness, for letting Potter see his want. But for now, he needs Potter, has to have this fire inside of him sated. 

Potter looks at him then, long and lingering. "No lube," he says after a moment. "Not proper, at least--"

"Just get me off," Draco says. His voice rises. "Merlin, Potter, I need--"

And then his hands are free and he's on his back again, Potter looming above him. Draco wraps his legs around Potter's hips with a deep groan. Potter thrusts, their pricks rubbing together, their bollocks slapping. "Tell me," Potter whispers into Draco's ear. “Tell me what you need.”

"This," Draco says, throat raw. His hands clench at Potter's sweaty shoulders. "Your cock on me, God, yes. _Fuck_ , I need your come all over my cock." He gasps at Potter's rolling hips. "Like that, oh, Circe. Please--"

Potter convulses, the muscles in his arms tensing as he holds himself above Draco. 

"Goddamn it, Potter." Draco's leg slides down, his foot catching on the edge of the bench. He pushes himself into Potter. "Give me more, you fucking whore--" He arches against Potter's hips, rolling his cock against Potter's. "I need your prick on me, come on, fuck, please, don't--" He reaches down and presses the palm of his hand against their cockheads, smearing slickness over both of them. Potter's gasping over him, throat corded, lip caught between his teeth.  "Take me--"

With a sharp cry Potter comes, hot spunk spilling between Draco's fingers in shuddering spurts. "Fuck," Potter groans, and then he's sliding down between Draco's thighs, pushing away Draco's hand to swallow his come-streaked cock, throat working as he sucks Draco hard. It's too much, and Draco's whole body jerks, a howl ripping from him as he trembles beneath Potter's hands and mouth. His spunk spills from Potter's lips, down Draco's cock, but Potter doesn't pull away until Draco's licked clean. Only then does Potter fall to the floor in a heap, mouth still smeared with spunk.

Draco lays on the bench, limp and gasping. His entire body feels boneless. Empty. 

Potter laughs, abrupt and harsh in the silence of the locker room. "That was not how I would have said my day would have started off twenty-four hours ago," he says, his head dropping back against the bench. He stares up at the ceiling. "Merlin's tits."

Draco concurs as he pushes himself upright. "You're not half-bad at cocksucking yourself."

That earns him a grin. "Practice makes perfect."

"A lot of training went into that then," Draco says. He ignores the quick flare of jealousy that shoots through him at the thought of Potter bent over a multitude of other men, mouth on their cocks until they’re begging him for more.

"Fair amount." Potter climbs to his feet with a groan, then reaches for Draco's hand. He pulls him towards the back row of showers. "Best clean up before the lads come in."

The water's warm, and Potter's pressed close to Draco in the cubicle. Draco's quite certain he can't be roused again, but when Potter's hands slide over him, spreading shower foam across his slick skin, he's surprised to feel his cock firm up. 

"Jesus," Draco says, but Potter just chuckles as he presses Draco against the cool tile, his mouth on Draco's. They kiss slowly under the spray of water, their hands smoothing across each other, fingers curling around cocks and bollocks, foreskin slipping down shafts until they're both hard and breathless. 

Potter turns Draco around, his fingers sliding through the crease of Draco's arse, followed by the head of his cock. Draco can feel Potter's ragged breath against his neck, and he pushes back, hands flexed against the shower wall, as Potter rubs his prick through Draco's arsecheeks, over the pucker of his hole, the head popping free against Draco's back. Draco groans; his cock hits the tile, sending tremors of want through him again. 

"Fuck me," he says, and he leans back against Potter's slick body. "There's a spell--it's not perfect, but--Circe, I need you in me _now_."

"Yeah?" Potter's cock moves, replaced by two thick fingers pressing and pulling at Draco's hole. "This is what you need?" 

Draco's hips buck backwards as Potter's fingertips breach him. He barely hears Potter's whisper, and then his hole is looser, slicker. It won't last long, he knows from experience, and he'll hurt more than he would with proper lube, but he doesn't care. He groans as Potter's fingers twist into him, coaxing him wider with each careful thrust. "God, yes." He widens his stance, steadies himself as Potter presses another finger in, going deeper. It feels amazing, and his body clenches in anticipation at the thought of Potter's thick cock moving inside of him. 

And then Potter's there, holding him up as the head of his prick slips into Draco's arse. Draco's cock is straining, hard and flat against his stomach. He doesn't want to touch it yet; he's afraid he'll spill the moment he does, and he wants to enjoy this as long as he can. 

Potter's murmuring into Draco's ear, soft encouragements at first as his prick pushes in bit by bit. Draco breathes out, letting his body relax to take in Potter's girth. Water pours down his back, over his face. His hair's plastered to his head, strands sticking to his cheeks, but he just arches into Potter's hips with a heated sigh until Potter's fully seated inside of him, his bollocks nearly against Draco's thighs.

They stand there for a moment, wet bodies connected, thrumming, Potter's hands heavy around Draco's waist. 

"Fucking tight little--" Potter’s voice is raw. "Tighter than I’d hoped. Christ, Malfoy, don't move or I'm going to go off like a goddamned Erumpent in your arse." He bites at Draco's shoulder. "God, if I'd know what a sweet fuck you were--"

"You'd have had me on my back in school?" It's agony for Draco to hold still, but he does. His body feels fractured, split apart by Potter's gorgeous prick. 

Potter breathes out, his fingers tensing and flexing on Draco's waist. He wants to slam into Draco's arse, cleave it open even further, Draco can tell, and that fact only excites Draco more. "Or when you were a recruit." Potter shifts, pulling out of Draco's arse with an excruciatingly slow movement. "Think of you in the sparring room, this bloody gorgeous arse--" He smacks the swell of Draco's hip with one palm. "Up in the air, cheeks spread, this tight little hole shivering, waiting for me to fuck it…" He breaks off with a groan, only the head of his cock still inside of Draco. "God, Malfoy," he whispers, "can you imagine?"

Draco can. 

"And I'd suck it," Potter says, voice still low. "Lick it. Push my tongue into your arse until you were shaking just like this." His hands slide around Draco's front, moving down over his stomach to cup around his cock. Draco draws in a ragged breath. 

"Then?" he asks. The pulse in his throat is still pounding. 

Potter's fingers slip along the vein beneath Draco's cock, barely touching. Draco's hands flatten against the wet tile; he wills them to keep him upright. 

"And then," Potter murmurs, "when you were aching for me, begging me…" He stops, his fingers hovering above Draco's prick. 

Draco drags his tongue across his bottom lip. His heart's a wild beat, pulsating through his body. "Please," he says, almost silent. 

"What was that?" 

But Draco knows Potter heard him. He swallows. "Please," he says a bit louder. "Please fuck me, Auror Potter."

Potter's body jerks behind him at that. He swears under his breath. 

Draco closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against Potter's shoulder.  "Fuck me, sir. I need your cock in me--so big, Merlin--" He's shaking, his hole clenching around the head of Potter's prick. "Goddamn it, sir, if you're not going to fuck me like a fucking man--"

He almost cries out when Potter slams into him, hard and fast, with a quite grunt. "Shut it, you whore," Potter says, and then Draco pushes back, his arse meeting Potter's every thrust. Potter's hand closes over Draco's prick, moving in perfect rhythm, and Draco's nearly undone.

There are voices from the locker room, laughter about the door being locked and what idiot had forgotten to open it up this morning, and Draco almost thinks Potter's going to stop, but he doesn't. Instead, he claps his free hand over Draco's mouth, and Draco whimpers in a haze of pure lust. He wants them to come back here, to find Potter inside of him, fucking him senseless. 

Potter's breath is harsh against his ear. "You want them to hear you come, don't you, you filthy slag," Potter whispers, and Draco shudders against him. "Christ, that's hot to you, yeah? Them knowing I'm balls-deep in your pretty arse, and you're begging me for it?" His hips slap against Draco's, nearly lifting him off his feet. "But the thing is, I'm not going to let you. You're my dirty secret, you and your brilliant arse, and God, I want to fill you again." He breaks off in a groan, and then he's back again, pushing Draco against the shower wall with each thrust of his hips, his hand moving faster on Draco's cock. "You drive me wild, Malfoy, and I'm going to wank for weeks thinking about this.” 

Draco nips at Potter's fingers, flicks his tongue between them. Potter swears again, and he pulls Draco's head back at a painful angle, leans in to suck at his throat. "And you,” Potter says. “Every time you touch your prick, you're going to think of me, you're going to remember what my cock feels like in you, and you're not going to tell _anyone_ \--not even those friends of yours--because I know you, Malfoy, and you like your dirty secrets too, and I'm yours now, just like you're mine, and fucking hell, you're a perfect little slut for me, aren't you?"

All Draco can do is nod, Potter's fingers still tight over his mouth. He loves it, being confined like this, Potter ripping control from him. He's nothing but a whore for Potter's touch, for Potter's cock, and he doesn't care any longer. He needs to be spread out beneath Potter, wide and open, ready for Potter to take him wherever, whenever he wants. 

Potter's panting now, and the spell's wearing off. Draco can feel every slide of Potter's cock in him, but he doesn't care if it hurts. His whole body is wound tight, ready to go off at just the right stroke of Potter's hand down his cock. 

"Goddamn, I'm going to come in you now, yeah?" Potter says against Draco's throat, and then Potter's biting him, hips jerking and pumping as he shudders almost silently against Draco. Potter's still for a moment, gasping, as his spunk seeps from Draco's arse, slick and hot. 

"Please," Draco pleads into Potter's hand. He can't take any more. 

Potter hesitates and for a moment Draco thinks he's going to leave him like this. Instead, Potter fists Draco's cock roughly, his own prick still half-inside Draco's arse. One tug, then another, Draco's cock fucking Potter's tight hand as if it's Potter's arse--Circe, it's almost too much when he closes his eyes and imagines that. He wants to be inside Potter, feeling that snug heat of Potter's body, hearing Potter beg _him_ for release while their colleagues laughter echoes in the room next door.

Next time.

Draco's cry is muffled by Potter's fingers. Come spatters across the shower cubicle, washed away by the stream of water. His body shakes as he slumps against Potter. He hasn't had sex like this in years--if ever. He feels hollowed out, raw, exhausted. 

"Better?" Potter turns so they're under the shower again, soaping Draco up gently. Draco winces when Potter's fingers brush his prick; he's too sensitive still. Everything hurts, and he's bloody certain he won't be able to sit comfortably for the next few days. "Sorry," Potter says, but he doesn't sound apologetic.

Draco leans against the cubicle wall. He can still hear the others in the locker room. They've no idea what's just gone on here. To be honest, he's not entirely certain himself. He watches Potter rinse himself off. "Thanks," he says after a moment. "I suppose I needed that."

"You're not the only one." Potter leans forward and kisses Draco, slow and easy. "Slag," he says, but there's the ghost of a smile curving his lips.

"Whore," Draco throws back at him. He kisses Potter again, letting his teeth scrape over Potter's bottom lip before he pulls away. "The lads go down the Leaky after training's done in the afternoon. Don't suppose you'd like to join?" It's mad to ask, he knows, but he can't help himself. "I wouldn't mind another go at this tonight." He trails a finger across Potter's hip and over the dark curls at the base of his cock. 

There's a flash of something across Potter's face that Draco can't quite place, but then it's smoothed away. "Sounds good," Potter says. He moves closer to Draco. Their bodies brush; a frisson sparks across Draco's skin. "Dawlish is expecting me." His mouth moves across Draco's throat, sucking and nipping. "I'd best go."

Draco nods, swallows. "You first. I'll wait a few." His mouth quirks to one side. "I do like my dirty secrets too."

Potter just smiles, and then he's gone, naked, wet body striding back towards the locker room. Draco can hear the greetings from the others, as well as the ribbing about Potter's towelless state. 

He sinks down into a crouch; the water washes over him, swirling into the drain in the centre of the cubicle. He's lost his bloody mind. Pansy's right. If anyone finds out what he's done, he'll never live any of this down. That lot out there will make certain of it. Potter'll get off scot-free, of course. He always does. 

Shit. Draco runs his hands over his face and waits for the voices to fade in the locker room. When the outside door finally closes with an echoing snick, he stands and turns the shower off.

He's no bloody clue how he's going to face today.

***

"You're actually going down the pub tonight?" Blaise sounds sceptical. "I thought socialisation with--and I quote--'those oafs' wasn't your thing."

Draco slings his holdall over his shoulder, his black wool Auror's coat hanging open, grey constable's piping askew. "I need a drink."

Blaise eyes him. He's one of the few Aurors besides bloody Potter who, in Draco's opinion, looks good in the robes. He's even wearing his the proper way, damn him, buttoned from collar to thigh. "Why? You spent all afternoon dozing through Dawlish's lecture on track reading and magical vestiges."

"Which reminds me, I'll need your notes on that," Draco says, following Blaise to the Centre's small bank of Floos. "Thanks."

"Fine. Whatever." Blaise joins the queue. "You'll never pass your sergeant's exam without me, you know." He frowns at Draco. "Is that a love bite on your neck? You haven't been shagging in the Knockturn clubs again, have you? Because I'm not bailing you out if there's a raid. Dawlish can find you in a bloody holding cell for all I care."

Draco feels his face heat. He claps a hand to his neck, shifting his coat collar beneath his fingers. Potter'd left marks this morning, ones that Draco's been trying to hide all day. He pulls his coat tighter, rebuttoning it so the collar stays upright. "Shut it. And no. It's just a bruise. Or something."

Blaise snorts. "Or something. Don't take me a fool, Draco. I know a love bite when I see one."

"It's nothing." Draco turns a fierce glare on Blaise, who blinks and holds his hands up.

"Fine." Blaise waits until it's their turn at the Floo, then turns back to Draco. "But it's a bloody love bite." He disappears in a flash of green.

"Wanker," Draco says, and in the next moment, he's stumbling out of the Leaky Floo. The others are already there, judging by the shouts of welcome Blaise receives. There's silence for Draco. Well. It's to be expected.

"Round's on me," Blaise says to a cheer, and he and Hughes go up to the bar to gather the pints. 

A space opens up for Draco at the standing tables, to his surprise, between Barlow and Shah. Barlow turns his back on him, but Shah gives him a small smile. His brown face is cheerful and friendly; he’s one of the few Aurors who hasn’t gone out of his way to avoid Draco, even if he’s bloody good with a Stinging Hex. Draco still has a welt on his upper arm from yesterday’s training exercise. 

"About time, you joined us, innit," Shah says in his thick Mancunian accent. "Beginning to think you didn't like our lot, whatever Zabini says."

Draco drops his holdall on the floor. "Rather the reverse, I'd think." 

"Nah." Shah says, and he finishes off his pint, setting it down with a thud against the stained wood of the table. "Not these lads. Bit prickly, some of them--" He nods to Barlow. "Like Callum 'ere, but you're still one of us, yeah?" He mimes a cheer. "Up the constabulary and whatnot."

A smile twists Draco's lips. "That seemed a bit sarcastic."

"Eh, well." Shah shrugs a shoulder. "I've never been one of those what took it all serious, you know? It pays the rent and puts me in curry and kebab come weekends, so it's all right, I reckon, but that's all."

"No climbing the rank ladder for you, then."

Shah laughs. "I'm well shot of the ladder, mate. Happy with me constable's greys, ta."

Draco looks around. Potter's not here, at least not that he can tell through the sea of black coats. He reaches for one of the crisp packets tossed on the table and opens it. Cheese and onion. Not bad. He crunches on one, then glances over at Shah. "So does Potter ever join these gatherings?"

"Potter?" Shah’s eyebrows go up. "What for? He's always in and out. No time for all of us, if Dawlish would let him. Potter's on the fast track, anyway. Inspector already, and rumour has it going to be bumped up to chief inspec soon enough."

"Oh." Draco didn't know that. He's tried not to follow Potter's meteoric rise through the force. "But he mentioned he might, earlier."

Shah shakes his head. "Nah. Potter weren't to be here after this afternoon, I heard. Only he's off again--back to Luxembourg, were it, Callum?"

Barlow turns his head. "Who?"

"Potter," Shah says. "He were only here for two days, then back to where?"

Draco stills. Potter hadn't said anything about that. Then again, Potter hadn't said much of anything at all once his cock was out of Draco's arse, had he? 

Barlow coughs into the back of his hand, frowning. His cheeks are ruddy and spattered with moles. "New York, as I recall. Something about a training session with the MACUSA?" He spits on the floor, then Vanishes it. "Who knows. The high muck-a-mucks never leave Lord Golden Boy in our midst very long. Might taint him with our commonness, yeah?"

Shah points a finger at Barlow. "Best not let Dawlish hear you." They both laugh, to Draco's surprise. He'd thought Potter had a better reputation than this with the others. 

"You don't like Potter, then?" Draco asks. He feels foolish. Used. He doesn't like it.

Barlow shifts to face him. "Didn't say that. Potter's not bad, really. Not when you get him away from the upper floors."

"Or the whores, they say." Shah taps a finger against his nose. "Keeps it on the quiet, but those things slip out, don't they?" He turns towards Draco and Barlow and lowers his voice. "You didn't hear it from me, right, but old Cuffe keeps Potter's shagging about out of the _Prophet_ as a favour to Robards. One of these days, I reckon, that'll change and then…" He mimics something blowing up. 

"Sod off," Barlow says. "Lad's young and famous. He wants to get his load off, let him. Not hurting you or me or anybody but those prissy old fuddy-duddies who bloody well want him to be a sodding saint."

Potter, Draco knows damned well, is no saint. Still he doesn't like this. He feels a bit nauseous. Why wouldn’t Potter say he was leaving? Why would he let Draco think it could happen again. His stomach twists. He’s been played, he thinks, and he knows he shouldn’t care, knows that Potter never promised him anything but a brilliant shag, but he can’t help himself. He feels as if he’s been punched in the gut.

"Where's Zabini with those pints?" Shah asks, looking towards the crowded bar. "I'm gagging for another, ain't I?"

"I'll find him," Draco says. He needs to get away, to get some air. 

He makes his way past throngs of Ministry workers and packs of Healers just off shift and out into the small alleyway behind the pub. The air's cooler out here, if a bit more rancid next to the bins. Draco leans against the brick wall, near a young, dark-skinned witch dressed in Auror robes, their light blue trim indicating her recruit status, her hair twisted up in a high knot. She blows a stream of smoke from her lips, then glances at him. 

"Shit day too, sir?"

"You could say that, yes."

She holds out a packet of ciggies. He only hesitates a moment before he takes one and puts it between his lips, lighting it with a flick of his wand. "Thanks," he says, and she nods. 

They smoke silently together for a few minutes, and then she drops her fag to the cobblestones and grinds it out with her boot. "Hope it gets better, sir," she says on her way past him. Draco just grunts and lifts the cigarette to his mouth again. 

He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall. His hair catches on the brick. Circe only knows what's on it, but he doesn't care right now. He feels a right damned fool, and he doesn't know why. It was just a shag, and a bloody good one at that. He'd wanted to get off with Potter, and Potter'd performed brilliantly. He's nothing to complain about; it wasn't any different than finding a bloke in a club and dragging him off to the loo for a fuck. Draco'd done it plenty of times before, never expecting anything to come from it.

And yet.

Draco feels oddly abandoned. He'd expected differently from Potter, he supposes. Stupid of him, really. He takes another drag on the fag and exhales a slow stream of smoke. It burns his lungs; he hasn't had a proper cigarette in months. 

The door to the pub opens beside him. He doesn't look over; he doesn't give a fuck. 

A bag hits the ground near his feet. "What's wrong with you?" Blaise asks. 

Draco opens his eyes. Blaise's face is twisted in concern. "I'm having a fag."

"Says the man who stopped smoking." Blaise leans next to him, kicks Draco's holdall closer. "You left that."

"Thanks." Draco lifts the cigarette again. 

Blaise just watches him. "You want to talk?"

"Not really."

They stand in silence for a while. The shadows lengthen and lamps click on over their heads, sending pools of light spilling across the cobblestones. The end of Draco's cigarette glows red-orange in the dusk. He smokes it until the ash is nearly to the filter tip, then he drops it and stomps it out. 

"Better?" Blaise asks.

Draco sighs. "Ever feel a complete idiot?" He can barely make out a star or two through the faint light of a London night. In Wilts he'd be able to see the whole starry sky, lying on the grass behind the Manor. Sometimes he wonders if he should just give up. Go back to his parents and whatever shadow of a life they're living now. 

"There've been times," Blaise says, "in which I may have experienced regret."

"Count today one of those for me." Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Blaise nudges Draco's shoulder with his. "You'll get through it."

"As always." Draco wonders where Potter is right now, if he's glad-handing some American diplomat without a single thought of Draco or if he's sat in a hotel room with a bottle of whisky in the middle of their afternoon, remembering the way Draco's body had felt against his. 

"Buy you a drink?" Blaise asks, and Draco nods. 

"Could do."

With one last glance back up at the sky, Draco follows Blaise into the warmth of the pub.

The door shuts behind them with a quiet thump.

**Author's Note:**

> The continuation of this story arc starts [here with the sequel Lost In Your Arms.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10323485/chapters/22822229) You can also [follow here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) for further series updates; a trilogy of novel-length fics is planned.)


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